Waving the banner of authority for personal gain

The empty beds in the dormitory were becoming fewer and fewer. There was a small gap between the two vertical rows of beds, so after seeing the person most likely to pass by their son’s bed settle in, Cong Rong and Wang Hao’s mother also helped their sons make their beds.

They laid two mattresses together, covered them with a single sheet—keeping the other sheet for changing—and because the bed was too narrow, the sheet had to be folded. Each quilt was placed at opposite ends.

Once everything was in order, Fang Lujun had already taken the lunchbox to the sink to wash it. Then, he and his wife led their son to the canteen to check the prices.

The steamed bun cost twenty cents each—two joined together, called a "big bun." Rice was fifty cents. There were both meat and vegetable dishes; meat dishes were one yuan, vegetable dishes fifty cents. That day’s menu was spicy chicken, shredded potatoes, and stewed cabbage.

Since rice was rarely eaten at home, Fang Lujun bought a bowl of rice, a portion of spicy chicken, and a serving of shredded potatoes for Fang Changan, totaling one yuan seventy cents.

The so-called spicy chicken barely had any meat; the shredded potatoes looked as if they’d been stir-fried in water, without a hint of oil. Watching this, Cong Rong’s heart ached silently, but there was nothing to be done—she could only watch from the side.

Fang Lujun went to the small shop and bought a bottle of soda, setting it on the stone platform in the canteen where they ate. The couple exchanged glances, both looking a little dejected.

In the end, it was Cong Rong who spoke: “You eat, your dad and I will head back now.”

The rice was simply placed in a bowl and steamed in a steamer. The bottom was sticky and gluey; the top, especially the rice around the rim, was dry and hard. Unlike in his previous life, Fang Changan wasn’t unfamiliar with rice, but the dishes were hard to swallow. The potatoes hadn't even been peeled properly, let alone washed thoroughly.

Yet this was the best his parents could offer, a token of their affection. Fang Changan didn’t show any displeasure, scooping up rice as he nodded at his parents and smiled, “I’ll be back next Friday, don’t worry!”

Seeing her son’s smiling face, Cong Rong nearly burst into tears. Fang Lujun sighed and said to his wife, “Let’s go, let’s go.” Then to his son, “If you need anything, go to your uncle—his office is on the first floor, the ninth-grade office, you know?”

“I know, don’t worry,” Fang Changan replied brightly, waving his hand. Only then did Cong Rong, pulled by her husband, make her way through the crowd and leave the canteen. At the door, she turned back, her gaze passing over the jostling parents and students, catching sight of her son sitting at the stone platform, head down as he ate his rice, and stared at him in a daze.

Fang Lujun had already exited the canteen. Seeing his wife still standing there, he waited a moment; only then did Cong Rong walk out silently, leaving the residential area and heading for the school gate.

Fang Changan took a few more bites, silently calculating the time. After hesitating to hold back, he finally turned to look—their parents were gone. Only then did he set down his chopsticks, glance at the bowl of rice and two dishes before him, and curse under his breath, “This stuff is absolutely disgusting!”

He knew there were food vendors outside the school gate, and the taste and hygiene were both better than the canteen, but he wasn’t sure if they were open this year. He remembered only starting to eat there regularly in ninth grade. Though he was tempted to go out and check, after a brief hesitation, he gave up.

In his previous life, at about this same time, his mother left while he was still eating, barely aware of what was happening until he realized halfway through his meal that she was gone, and suddenly felt utterly alone.

Now, the same sense of parting welled up in him, but he quickly suppressed it, thinking to himself, “Finally, I can enjoy myself a little!”

Unfortunately, he was only in junior high and had an uncle on staff. “Enjoying himself” simply meant not having to pretend to work so hard—his small body was still a heavy shackle he couldn’t escape.

“Just three more years. When high school comes, I’ll really be free,” he consoled himself, forcing down the unpalatable food. If nothing unexpected happened, this would be the most “luxurious” meal he’d have in the canteen in three years of junior high.

In his previous life, Fang Changan’s entire first year of junior high, his weekly allowance was less than ten yuan. Most days, his meal was a big bun with a bean curd stick or a slice of spicy dried tofu—fifty cents. Breakfast was a ten-cent bowl of thin porridge or a twenty-cent bowl of salty soup with a small bun. If he had porridge, he’d put one dime’s worth of bean curd stick or spicy tofu in the bun—thirty cents in all.

Fang Changan never mentioned any of this to his family, but they could guess from his allowance. His grandmother, worried he’d go hungry, would have him visit every two weeks or a month, fry meatballs, make stir-fried flour, or send some pickles or bean paste—whatever could be made at home and kept for a while—to bring back to school.

In his previous life, Fang Changan entered junior high at 1.58 meters, graduated at 1.68 meters, and after spending two months of summer with his mom post-graduation, shot up to 1.75—proof enough of the nutritional deprivation during those three years.

Fortunately, he made up for it later.

As the saying goes, it’s hard to go from luxury to frugality. With memories of his later life, Fang Changan would never be as hard on himself as before. It was Sunday, and he wouldn’t go home until the next Friday. His parents didn’t know how much he’d need, so they’d given him thirty yuan.

He couldn’t treat himself too poorly, but couldn’t spend recklessly either.

Fang Changan quietly set his own living principles in his heart. After finishing his meal, he left the dishes on the table—the canteen owner would come to collect them later.

With food this bad, you expect me to clear my own dishes? Dream on.

The canteen was run by two contractors, which at least meant some competition. Otherwise, Fang Changan couldn’t imagine what he’d be eating every day.

He carried his unused lunchbox back to the dormitory. Wang Hao wasn’t there, but in a fifty-person dorm there was no shortage of people—some lying down or sitting, others already acquainted and chattering away.

Fang Changan stuck out his rear, pulled his washbasin from under the bed, put the lunchbox inside, and pushed the basin back in. He went to the sink by the wall to wash his hands and face, then dried off with a towel hanging at his bedhead.

“Hey!”

From the upper bunk in the middle of the row to his right, a boy with a buzz cut and a hint of rebelliousness called out, “Is your uncle really a teacher?”

Fang Changan glanced at him, vaguely remembering his face, though not his name—only that he was one of the most notorious troublemakers among the new students, someone who’d even extorted money from others, though not from him.

Seeing that Fang Changan didn’t answer right away, the buzz-cut boy deliberately put on a menacing expression. Fang Changan found this amusing, sat down on his bed, and replied, “Yes, my uncle teaches eighth and ninth grade. My aunt is teaching seventh grade now, she’s the head teacher of Class Six.”

This guy was in Class Six himself. On hearing this, he paused in surprise. Fang Changan smiled at him, “Which class are you in? What’s your name?”

The buzz-cut boy, perhaps sensing that saying he was his aunt’s student would cost him face, grunted and flopped down on his bed without answering.

Fang Changan smiled, “Hey, which class? If you’re in Class Six, that’s perfect—if you get into trouble, I can talk to my aunt for you.”

At this, the buzz-cut boy shot up, clinging to the bed rail with excitement, “Really? I’m in Class Six—really!”

Fang Changan smiled and said nothing more, lying back on his bed.

“Hey!”

The buzz-cut boy quickly fished out two peanut candies from his pillow and tossed them onto Fang Changan’s bed, grinning amiably, “My name’s Liu Cheng, from Daliu Village. Now we know each other.”

Fang Changan unwrapped one candy and popped it into his mouth, put the other in his pocket, stood up and smiled, “My name’s Fang Changan. We know each other now, but I’m a good student—I want to get into the county’s top high school. Friends or not, don’t involve me in anything bad. If you affect my studies, my aunt won’t help, no matter who you are.”

“Hey, don’t worry! If anyone dares bother your studies, I’ll beat them up!”

Liu Cheng thumped his chest in guarantee, then shouted to the others still in the dorm, “Anyone from Classes Five, Six, or Seven—did you hear that? Don’t mess with the top student from Class Four! If you mess up his grades and he can’t test well, I’ll beat you to a pulp!”

This guy had a cousin in eighth grade who’d probably come to the dorm to back him up before. After this obviously provocative declaration, surprisingly, no one talked back.

Fang Changan didn’t mind, smiling at Liu Cheng, “The candy’s sweet, thanks.”

Liu Cheng hurriedly said, “I’ve got more—want two more?”

Clearly eager to curry favor, but not generous enough to give away too many—after all, none of them were rich kids.

“Two is enough for saying hello. You don’t need to give me anything in the future; I’m not that kind of person. Besides, we’re in the same dorm—if I can help, I will. If not, gifts won’t change anything. You might as well eat them yourself.”

He took a small alarm clock from under his pillow, glanced at the time—it was not yet twelve—then said, “Alright, I’m heading out. Don’t let anyone steal my stuff.”

With Fang Changan’s tacit approval, Liu Cheng, though only receiving a verbal promise, felt as if his future life in the class was now guaranteed. He was so excited that he looked at the other students in the dorm with an even cockier air, shouting, “Don’t worry! If anyone dares steal your stuff here, I’ll beat the crap out of them!”

Fang Changan laughed. “Thanks.”